


Sun and Stupidity

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Gen, John is injured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: Just an average mission in Afghanistan going balls up.  What's a Lance Corporal to do when his favourite Captain gets shot?





	Sun and Stupidity

**Author's Note:**

> And so we begin another year of Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts! Can't promise I'll write every day this year, but we shall see how we go. Please forgive the inevitable errors, given the haste with which I am writing to meet the deadlines (and feel free to point them out so I can fix them!)  
> I hope you enjoy the flashfic madness!
> 
> July 1st's prompt is: Watson injury (any severity), from a different POV than Holmes (meaning Mrs. Hudson, Scotland Yard, Baker Street Irregular, The Villain (whoever he/she may be), etc.

“Damn,” said Captain Watson, up on his knees, his eyes focused intently across the low wall towards the other side of the compound. “Looks like Peters has been hit.”

Lance Corporal Bill Murray swore. There was no such thing as an ordinary day in Afghanistan and an ambush on the side of a road that was supposed to be a safe was barely a surprise—but a teenager like Peters getting hit on his first day off the base was a bad break anywhere.

“Bad?” asked Bill, passing John the medical kit to free his rifle arm. Not that John was any slouch on the range, but he was meant to be hunkering down out of the line of fire until the fighting died down. The Army didn’t have enough doctors to risk them without reason. And Bill’s job was protecting him, at least as much as anyone could protect an officer who thought he could protect himself. “No one’s called.”

“Couldn’t see,” said John shortly, shouldering the bag and checking his own firearm. “Went down clutching the thigh, could be time-critical. Ready?”

“Sir,” said Bill, crouched behind him.  They'd have drinks and play poker as usual tonight, when they were both off shift, but for now, it was business time.

“Go.”

They ran, crouched low behind the stone wall the others were using for shelter, behind the line of firing men, behind the clouds of dust until a loud stutter of fire came that made Bill drop to the ground, motioning for John to do the same—too late.

Bill stared at his friend, pale-faced and developing a quick-spreading bloodstain on his shirtfront, and crawled over to him. At least they had cover behind the wall here.

“Medic!” he shouted to the others.

Pressure, he remembered that much from the first aid course John had run for them all on base when he’d arrived, refreshed them on again every year since. He rolled John onto his back and put his hands against the flow of blood, leaning on with his weight and making John moan in deep-sounding agony.

“Lieutenant Andrews!" Bill yelled again. "We need a medic here _now_!”

“Where’s Captain Watson?” came back Andrews’ voice, followed by another exchange of gunfire.

“He’s the one down!” shouted back Bill. “Looks _bad_ , sir!”

“ _Shit_ ,” said Andrews fervently. “All right, stand by, I’ll radio for backup. We need to clear this lot out.”

John’s eyes were closed when Bill looked back at him.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Bill, leaning more of his bodyweight onto him and earning another moan. “John, John, tell me what to do?”

“Already doing it,” John gritted out, but at least opened his eyes. “A plus, my best student. Pressure’s about all you can do for a shoulder til I’m in theatre. Could have some plasma in the truck, depending how much I’m losing. ‘F it’s nicked the subclavian, might as well save it for someone who'll give it more mileage.”

“Oh, very comforting,” jibed Bill. “Isn’t bedside manner meant to be your job, Doctor?”

“My job’s meant to be Peters,” whispered John, eyes blank and empty looking. “How is he?”

Bill took a look at the intent look on John’s face, and then pushed himself up briefly to look, then bobbed back down eyes shut, letting his mind process the split-second image. Peters hadn’t been on the ground in the spot he’d fallen anymore, so it took him a moment to place the face among the others.

“Fine,” said Bill, opening his eyes again. “Nothing wrong with his leg. Must’ve just tripped and fallen arse over tit, you stupid idiot.”

“Stupid idiot, _sir_ ,” whispered John, going limp with relief at the news, and making Bill press harder again to keep him conscious.

“Thought I’d already said that,” returned Bill. “Practically the same thing.”

He glanced up as the field fell abruptly silent; the last of the insurgents apparently having been taken out. A section was creeping around the side to flush the rear and make certain no one was just waiting for their chance. Lieutenant Andrews was still yelling into the radio—no help there for a while.

“Peters, Caldwell!” Bill called, waving to a particular pair of unoccupied enlisted men. “Grab a stretcher. We’re going to transfer the Captain. He needs to get to base hospital ASAP. Stay low, all right?”

“Yessir!” the young men chorused in unison and ran for the truck, bent almost double.

Bill turned back to John’s white face, keeping the pressure on.

“Just hold on, all right, John?” he demanded. “Two minutes, then you’ll be in the truck. You don’t want to die and leave me in charge of the ward, do you?”

“Please, God,” muttered John, and coughed a breathless laugh that rocked Bill’s firmly-pressed hands in a way that felt noticeably different from the earlier sob. “Let me live.”

“Don't blame _me_  that my first aid's bollocks, sir,” grinned Bill in relief.  Beside him, the two young Privates arrived at a crouch and set out the stretcher. “I had a lousy teacher.”

The base wasn’t far, and backup or no backup, he wasn’t going to let John die.


End file.
